Page 3 of Girl Anonymous
She wondered if he intended to shake her composure with his silence and his judgmental gaze, and she wanted to tell him to knock it off. She’d had far more imposing scrutiny from far more imposing watch groups.
She didn’t say a word. It was his stuff, or rather his mother’s, and if he wanted to observe, he could. Probably he hadn’t identified her; in her loose white coveralls with her name stitchedon, her white running shoes, and her short dark red hair covered in a blue bandanna, she was a far cry from the little girl wearing her Sunday dress and jumping over the black tiles onto the white tiles, using the parquet floor as if it were a giant hopscotch.
She pushed her glasses down her nose to read the tape measure and jot them down, and when she was done, again checked them against the measurements Dante Arundel had sent.
He unfolded his arms and plucked her glasses off her nose, a presumptuous move that left her startled and blinking. He held them up to the window and squinted through them. “Why do you wear these? There’s no correction.”
“Blue-light protection.”
He glanced at her tape measure and her pen and paper. “From what? You’re low-tech.”
“Blue light on my phone. My tablet.” She nodded at her devices. “I’m back and forth all day. It’s easier to wear them than to not have them when I need them.”
“The glass is so lightly tinted, I can hardly see it.”
“My eye doctor prescribed them. One assumes he knows what he’s doing.” A lie; she’d bought them online, but she itched to slam Dante Arundel down.
“Hm.” He placed the black frames on the side table and viewed her face as if he were appraising a piece of art, with sharp interest but no emotion. “Your eyes are an unusual color. Violet?”
“Just blue.” She heard the elevator door ding and hoped to hell it was Alex.
It was. Alex walked through the library door pushing the luggage cart piled with the boxes, paper, and bubble wrap. She kept glancing behind with an alert, wary expression; none of the company’s movers related well to burly men in dark suits who loitered in foyers, but Alex more than most.
She saw Dante, appraised him in a single glance, and said, “Ah.”
He stepped forward. “I’m Dante Arundel.”
Alex shook hands with him. “A pleasure.” Obviously, it was not.
Together she and Maarja began the arduous process of packing the larger paintings and highly breakable pieces of art.
“The truck is in the drive? Unguarded?” Dante let it be known he was critical.
Alex’s gaze sliced toward Maarja. She seldom spoke to the clients; tact was a skill she’d not chosen to learn, and the extremely wealthy expected to be treated with the delicacy of their art objects.
However, few of their wealthy clients irritated and presumed quite like Dante, and Maarja had to consciously regulate her tone to answer him. “A van. We have a van. Serene is with it. She’ll be fussing with the contents, making herself appear busy to any eyes that might be observing, but in fact she’s our lookout and security.”
“She’s armed?” Dante asked.
“We’re all armed, but while we’re in a safe environment—your estate—Alex and I concentrate on packing and transporting to the truck, so while we’re aware of our surroundings, we’re focused on the objects.”
“Three women think they can safeguard treasures worth millions?”
He really needed to watch his attitude.
Not that he would. He was one ofthoseguys, but Maarja wavered between wanting to punch him right between the eyes or ask him,Do you know who I am?
CHAPTER 2
The last impulse alone told Maarja clearly that she needed to finish the job and get out the door. “After a couple of attempted robberies, I convinced Saint Rees that armed male guards make people pay attention. Women are perceived as harmless, so a woman puttering around a large white van markedJunkmeans the contents aren’t valuable and not worth bothering.”
“Anyone who thinks you’re harmless is a fool.” Dante chuckled, a deep warm trickle of mirth at odds with the ruthless persona he presented.
The comment and the amusement made her pause, look at him, acknowledge that she might have misread him. In her business and with her past, she’d learned that such a misreading could put her at a disadvantage. She kept her tone pleasantly neutral as she said, “I know how to protect the objects I’m sent to guard.”
He kept his gaze on her face, observing her as he dug beneath her skin. “And how to protect yourself.”
He struck emotional gold, for she snapped, “What do you mean by that?”
